


Thankful

by 2ofacrime24



Series: Endings [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Character Death, Deathfic, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-11-30
Updated: 2009-11-30
Packaged: 2017-11-20 16:00:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,320
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/587132
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/2ofacrime24/pseuds/2ofacrime24
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Castiel says goodbye. Companion to If I Had the Time to Tell You Everything, I Would.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Thankful

**Author's Note:**

> Written from Castiel's prespective. Companion piece: If I Had the Time to Tell You Everything, I Would.

You don’t have any regrets, not really. You don’t regret turning your back on your brothers, don’t regret going against Heaven and Hell by following him. You didn’t regret dying the first time and you won’t this time. You didn’t hesitate, not one second, when you saw the shot gun aimed at him, the fallen angel wielding it driven from what little sanity he had left. You calmly stepped in front of him, the man you had plummeted to hell for and drug upwards to earth for, the man who you willingly gave a part of your grace to in order to save him. You stepped in front of that barrel and took the blast that erupted from it dead on.

It shocked you, the pain, as scraps and shards of metal from buck shot imbedded into your skin and tore through your stomach and left side like your body was paper. It’s not supposed to hurt this much and you’re not suppose to collapse from the pain and blood loss. You’re an angel after all but you guess that doesn’t matter anymore. The host had left days ago, taking what little grace you had left in you with them, leaving you weak and human but you didn’t tell them, didn’t tell him because you know that if you did you wouldn’t be here now and he would be dead.

So you don’t regret not telling him. You don’t regret stepping in front of that barrel and you don’t regret falling. You’re there, lying in that field, the cold from the air and from the ground seeping through your clothing and into your skin as the warmth that once lit you escapes your body along with the blood that bleeds from your wounds. You’re lying there watching him fight the fallen angel tooth and nail, his body moving gracefully about the battlefield as he tears into the vessel with only a dulled knife that lost it’s powers months before. You watch him fight for life, for the world and with a brother that loves him as much if not more than you love him. You watch him fight, you watch him win, and you watch him survive. And you thank God, wherever he is for letting you witness this, for giving this beautiful man to you to breathe life into and help and love. You thank God for the two years you’ve had with him which have seemed longer and more satisfying than the previous two millennia you spent without him.

It doesn’t take long for him to sweep you up in his arms when he’s done fighting. Only a moment had passed and the next thing you knew he was holding you, cradling you to him, pressing his hand down on your wounds in a futile attempt to keep you alive. But you know you won’t survive, know that these are your last moments on earth so you open your eyes and focus in on him. You take the time, though you know you don’t have much, to memorize him, which you think is silly because you had his face memorized long before you pressed your hand to his shoulder and fused his body, mind, soul, and part of your grace together. You do it anyway though, because he’s beautiful, in your opinion the greatest creation made by God, the perfect man. The green eyes that often looked at you with anger, hostility, and confusion. Later filled with laughter, hope, and love. His full lips which once hurled insults and curses at you that later smiled and told stories and jokes that most people never heard and never would hear. You take in his nose, his cheekbones, his hairline, and his stubble which he never really shaved, only trimmed to keep that ragged lone ranger look.

You cough suddenly, dragging phlegm and blood up from your lungs and it tastes strange and wrong on your tongue so you rasp out his name, clenching your eyes shut because coughing hurts. Everything hurts and part of you just wants to curl into him, to burry into him because if you could you wouldn’t feel the pain, only him and his light and his grace. But you don’t, instead you turn your head away and spit out the blood that has now collected in your mouth because you can’t stand the taste of it anymore. You breathe deeply, trying to fill your lungs but you can’t, not really and it shakes you, it makes you tremble and you want to cry.

But his voice, his simple, soft, hoarse, “yeah” keeps you from doing anything but listen and you smile. You concentrate on him, his voice, his breaths, his heartbeats, counting them as you try and think about what you have to do, what you need to say before it’s all over and you’re gone because you know you’ll never get another chance. Because you know this is the end for you. This is it.

“Sam?” you ask and you feel him hold you a little bit tighter as his younger brother answers you. You look over and there’s Sam Winchester, his eyes darting back and forth between you and the man holding you, his eyes filled with worry and sadness because unlike Dean who has been looking at you with hope and faith, Sam knows that this is it too. You smile at the younger brother who returns it with a softer, sadder one.

“I knew it was right to have faith in you Sam Winchester,” you whisper, conviction making up for what volume you lost when you were hit. He laughs but it’s choked, loud, and forced and you can tell he’s trying not to cry and so you laugh and smile and thank him silently for understanding, for saying goodbye in a way that’s purely Sam and you know that Dean’s going to be okay when you’re gone because he’ll have the rock that Sam has become and you thank God for that too.

Dean holds you closer to him and you shamefully try to leech some more warmth from him because you’re so cold but you know he doesn’t care, know that he’s more than willing to give that warmth to you, know that he would give more if he could. You look back up at him, locking your eyes with his gorgeous green eyes. “Dean,” you say and he presses a bit tighter at your abdomen at that, his eyes widening slightly and you place your own hand over his, gripping it and you can tell that he’s not going to let you finish what you want to say but you still start anyways. “You-“ you begin but he cuts you off, just like you knew he would.

“Don’t Cas-“ he says, shaking his head and you frown slightly, praying that he’ll let you say what you need to say, what you need to let him know before it’s too late. “Whatever you’re gonna say just shove it, okay? Because this isn’t the end of the world, these aren’t your last moments on earth, and you are not dying. You understand?” You smile, sad. You don’t want to leave him, don’t want to let go of him either. If you could you’d hold on and stay with him forever. You say his name, pleading but he shakes his head and sobs a “no” and you can see his eyes are tearing up and he’s trying hard not to cry, maybe because it’s just too chick flick for him or maybe because he doesn’t want to worry you, wants you to believe that you will live as much as he does. “Damn it, Cas, don’t-“

You cut him off this time and all you say is his name. He opens his mouth to stop you but Sam has reached out to stop him and you silently thank the younger Winchester for understanding once again. Dean looks at him as if he wants to say something but he stays silent for a moment and turns his attention back to you, his eyes locked onto yours and he shakes his head, stating “I’m not letting you go,” hoarsely and you can tell he’s trying really hard not to cry, now fighting a losing a battle.

“It’s not your choice,” you reply, trying to sound comforting, understanding. He lets the first tear slip and you watch as it trails down his cheeks to hang precariously on his chin until it drops onto your own cheek to join and mingle with your tears.

“No,” he gasps, shaking his head as he closes his eyes and inhales a stuttered breath that shakes both of you slightly. “You’re not supposed to go,” he says, crying earnestly, his voice breaking, distressed and weak. “You can’t, there’s still too much I-“ he cuts himself off, biting his bottom lip as if to hold back the sobs that are threatening to take over his body and you wish more than anything that you could hold him instead and sooth his fears and tell him, “ _I’m not going anywhere Dean, you couldn’t get rid of me even if you tried_ ,” but you can’t, you can’t hold him and you can’t lie to him, you never really could. So you push yourself up, shaking on weak arms but he’s helping you automatically, adjusting both himself and you to make sure _you’re_ comfortable because that’s what he does, what he’s always done. You reach up and touch his face, something you haven’t done since the day you pulled him from hell. You caress the skin, soft and rough with stubble, warm and wet from tears that still fall. “I can’t,” he sobs, pressing his check to your palm, “not without you.”

“You can, and you will, just as you have done before, you will do so after.” He shakes his head against your hand, his lips pressing softly to your palm for only a moment, not a kiss but almost one as you slowly nod your head. You can tell he’s starting to realize that this is it, that you’re really not going to survive and you can tell it’s tearing him apart and because it hurts him, it hurts you too. An ache in your chest that is greater than the pain that fills your abdomen and has made you lose feeling in your legs. “You are my greatest blessing, Dean Winchester. God could not have given me a greater man than you,” you whisper and he cups your face at that and you relish in his touch and for a moment you wish you could stay like this for eternity, wish you could stay in his arms, feel his warm hand caressing your face while your own hand feels the warmth of his own. “I do not regret anything and would do it all over again if given the second chance.”

“No,” he gasps, though it’s not because he doesn’t believe you. It’s because he doesn’t want you to leave and you don’t either. You take comfort in the way his fingers card through your hair, feeling his fingertips and nails scratch lightly at your scalp before cupping your face once more, his thumb sweeping the corner of your mouth as you nod and cry. You look up at him, your eyes locked onto each other as they have been for a while now. You can’t remember the last time you closed your eyes or blinked. You don’t want to. Don’t want to miss one second of him with the time you have left. It’s not enough, not nearly enough so you’ll make the most out of it.

“You have taught me how to feel, Dean, and for that I thank you.”

“God, Cas- _please_ ,” he begs and you smile, shaking your head softly while sweeping your thumb over his bottom lip. He shifts his head slightly and kisses the pad of it and you gasp. Then he’s pulling you forward and his lips are pressed to yours and you thank God for this. You’re weak, slowly draining and you don’t have much strength left but you thank God that you have enough left for this. You kiss him back, feeling his stubble scratch against your chin, his nose pressed into your cheek and his eyes closed as if it’ll help him get across his feelings to you and you feel them, you feel him. You taste him, his tears and your blood.

You stop because it’s getting harder to breath but you don’t pull away, you can’t bear to pull away, can’t bear to lose contact so you keep your forehead pressed to his and look at him, his eyes closed, his lips red, and his cheeks wet and you smile. “Thank you,” you say. It’s all you need to say because he knows, knows that you love him more than anything you have ever loved in your entire existence. And while that might be blasphemous, while that might condemn you to hell, you don’t care. Because you realize God wouldn’t have made you capable of this kind of love if he didn’t want you to experience it. And you have experienced it, you do, and you are thankful to be in love with a man so wonderful, so beautiful, so perfect.

He gives a soft sob and his lips are pressed to yours once again and you smile into it, happy, content, and loved. And you don’t regret it, not any of it, nothing. Because it brought you here, to this spot in time, to Dean’s arms, to his lips, to his love and you are completely satisfied. You are in love.

So you whisper it across his lips with your last breath and you let go, thankful for your life and his. Thankful for your ability to love. But most of all, thankful for his.

End.


End file.
